by Jack Challis
The three troopers soon reach a fast-flowing, white-water river and crouch down, observing the opposite bank which is bare of cover.
‘The Japari River!’ Jim Kane announces. ‘Lacy, scan the opposite bank with your sniper-scope.’
‘Nothing, Sarge – there’s no cover on the other side he can snipe from – but how has he crossed the river?’
‘Fucked if I know,’ answers Kane. ‘My crystal ball’s still covered in shit. And by the look of it, Chevez is not sure himself – he’s been up and down this stretch of bank several times, as if he couldn’t remember the right crossing point.’
‘Remember José, Lobo’s man?’ Dublin reminds. ‘He said the crossing was somewhere here – a secret crossing – it has to be hidden.’
‘That makes sense, Frank,’ answers Kane. ‘The fever in Chevez’s brain has made him forget.’
‘Look Sarge,’ exclaims Lacy, pleased with himself; ‘someone has cut a stick .’
‘That’s it,’ says Kane. ‘Cut me one, lad.’
‘What colour, Sarge?’ asks Jack Lacy, unable to stop himself.
‘Just do it today – cut out the wisecracks,’ replies the Sergeant.
With the stick, Kane walks along the bank using it as a feeler underwater. He stops every twenty yards and marks five points with smaller sticks. From his pocket he takes a pair of Polaroid sunglasses and looks into the river. ‘What can you see, Sarge?’ Lacy asks.
‘Now I see through a light glass darkly – fuck all, in other words,’ answers Kane. ‘It’s too deep, fast–flowing – but I know ancient races built hidden crossings, kind of puzzles, to confuse and delay the enemy. I can feel five stone slabs, about five metres apart, under the water, laid out of sight well below the surface. I bet only one set of stone slabs reaches the other side – the rest are traps. Lacy, get your kit off.’
‘Why me, Sarge?’ Lacy asks.
‘Because you are the youngest and fittest and, most important, the most expendable!’
‘What about….things in the river?’
‘You will be fine, lad,’ answers Kane. ‘The current’s too strong for dangerous wildlife.’
Lacy enters the river and stands on the first slab – it is knee-deep. However, after reaching the fourth stepping-stone, Lacy is hip-deep and is suddenly swept off his feet into the white water.
‘Come back, lad,’ shouts Kane. ‘That crossing’s a trap – each stone took you deeper.’
Lacy manages to struggle back using powerful strokes and tries another crossing. This crossing takes him out to midstream – then ends abruptly, causing Lacy to fall in the deepest part of the river. Lacy, a very strong swimmer, just manages to make it back to the bank. Just a good swimmer would have failed.
‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers,’ the ex-marine swears.
Try this one,’ says Kane, without emotion at Lacy’s narrow escape.
Lacy mumbles under his breath. ‘I know, I know – the only sympathy you’ll get in this mob is in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.’
Jack Lacy tries the third crossing. It’s only thigh-deep – all the stones are level and Lacy reaches the far bank safely.
Manus Xingue suddenly appears! He proceeds to snort a line of cocaine.
‘I had a feeling,’ comments Dublin, ‘that our venereal friend has been watching us all this time. Now he knows the right set of stones for the crossing.’
The SAS troopers cross to the other bank, leaning back against the strong current; Manus Xingue follows. The three SAS troopers watch the short, muscular indian struggling to keep his feet against the current.
‘Let me shoot him now, Jim,’ requests Dublin. ‘Put a round in his big, ugly head while he is occupied – we will never get a better chance.’
‘No,’ answers Kane. ‘It’s too dangerous here in the open, his tribe could be watching. Tonight – we agreed. Chevez now is at his most desperate – we need all our eyes not to walk into an ambush.’
Reaching the opposite bank, Manus Xingue grins and picks up Chevez’s tracks again.
‘Rumpleforeskin has got more front than Selfridges,’ Lacy quips.
The group stops occasionally to examine spots where the fever-ridden Chevez has collapsed. The trail is leading them into the jungle-covered foothills – Kier Verde country.
Once into the foothills, the track they are following becomes completely hemmed in by jungle; Manus Xingue is some way ahead.
The grotesque indian stops, just before a small break in the surrounding jungle wall, from which it is possible to see the next hill and valley below. He snorts a line of cocaine and regards the SAS troopers with a knowing grin. Dublin and Lacy take up defensive positions; Kane moves from the jungle gloom into the light of the open space to study his map.
‘This track bends left,’ says Kane, ‘and heads back south. Chevez is heading north.’
‘You are in danger, standing there, Jim!’ Dublin warns.
Before Kane can move, a bullet whistles past his ear and cuts a groove in a tree behind him. Kane hits the deck. ‘Fuck me gently! Lacy – over here! Take cover behind this tree.’ Lacy crawls over.
‘Place your barrel in the angle of that groove and scan the top of that hill in front. Chevez is up there somewhere. The sun’s in your favour – look for any movement or reflection,’ orders the Sergeant.
After a short while, Lacy calls out. ‘Sarge, a reflection!’
‘Keep your eyes on it lad,’ Kane replies.
On the opposite hill, behind a rock, lays Chevez; sweat is dripping down his forehead, obstructing his vision. Chevez wipes his brow; he is having trouble remaining conscious. He notices the valuable, spent brass cartridge to his right, just out of reach!
It is this spent cartridge that is causing the reflection! Chevez looks up at the sun and realises the danger; it would give his position away. He also needs this used, irreplaceable cartridge for reloading.
Without his malarial fever, Chevez would have just slipped away and picked it up another day but his parasite-ridden brain was not thinking straight. He reaches out for the spent brass cartridge case, not just exposing his arm but also his head!
Jack Lacy zeroes the cross-hairs of his telescopic sight on the bridge of Chevez’s nose – a perfect brain shot! Then the soft-hearted Lacy changes his mind and, instead of killing Chevez with a headshot, moves the cross-hairs of his sights back down onto Chevez’s forearm.
A high velocity shot echoes through the valley, ricocheting off the valley’s rocky walls.
‘I got him, Sarge!’ shouts the jubilant Lacy.
‘A head shot?’ Kane asks.
‘No, couldn’t see his head,’ lies Lacy; ‘just his right forearm.’
‘Well,’ replies Kane, disappointed, ‘at least it will weaken him further and give us a blood-trail to follow.’
The three SAS men discuss the next move.
‘We can’t go into the valley, Jim,’ warns Dublin. ‘Chevez will pick us off.’
‘Let’s do a detour,’ responds Kane, ‘swing around and reach Chevez’s position from behind.’
‘Ok,’ replies Dublin, lowering his voice. ‘Our venereal friend dropped you in it, Jim. He tried to get you killed!’
‘Yeah,’ adds Lacy, ‘he hung back from the opening and let you go forward, Sarge.’
‘Ok,’ replies Kane, ‘definitely tonight, soon as we bivvie. Remember – with a knife, Frank – I don’t want our position compromised with shooting. We’re now in the territory of the Invisible People!’
Dublin is angry – Kane has warned the queasy Lacy, who now may now give the game away!
‘Right,’ continues Kane, ‘we have two hours of daylight, enough to sneak up on Chevez. What do you think, Frank?’
‘Chevez will be weak and burning up with fever – he won’t move till the morning.’
The soldiers move out, followed by Manus Xingue, who is now hanging back. After a couple of kilometres, the three SAS troopers come to an old, flimsy, native swi
ng-bridge made from vines twisted together.
‘Looks double dodgy to me, Sarge,’ says Lacy. ‘The bridge is swinging.’
‘So do a bull’s bollocks,’ replies Kane, ‘but they don’t drop off. Get your arse across.’
‘Send Rumpleforeskin over first,’ grumbles Lacy. ‘He has to be more expendable then me.’ Kane gives Lacy a look.
‘It’s a five hundred foot drop!’ Lacy complains.
‘Send us a postcard,’ replies Kane.
‘The drop won’t kill you,’ adds Dublin. ‘In fact it’s a good feeling, like free-falling before the ‘chute opens – it’s the sudden stop that hurts! Now move, your lazy, useless arse – you Cockney ponce.’
Lacy begins to cross tentatively, the vine bridge creaking under his weight. He finally makes it across and takes up a defensive position. Kane crosses next, then Dublin and finally Manus Xingue, who nimbly scampers over on all fours, spreading his weight, just like a big cat.
The SAS men descend into the valley and start to climb the hill from which Chevez had fired his shot. Suddenly, they hear the noise of a chopper and take cover quickly, especially Manus Xingue!
‘It’s that bloody Yank Black Hawk again,’ swears Dublin. ‘The same one. Looks like it has a heli-gimble camera hanging below the fuselage! They must be monitoring us.’
‘Or they think we are hostiles – always a danger with the Yanks. Lacy – come here, lad. Can you put a round in that camera?’
‘It’s maximum range, Sarge. I’ll give it a shot, allowing for the angle of dangle and the length of the lob.’
‘Just get the fuck on with it, today!’ says Kane.
‘After Lacy fires, keep your heads down,’ orders Kane, ‘in case they let go a couple of rockets.’ Lacy begins preparations for his shot.
In the American Black Hawk chopper, an intelligence officer sits next to the pilot. Both study a screen. ‘Goddamn sneaky Limeys, they’re down there somewhere–four tracking bugs are giving us a signal.’
‘The fifth bug on the Marpari tracker is still missing!’ the pilot points out. ‘We have a range of three miles on the heli-gimble camera.’
‘Move out of sound range – I need to see if our Marpari is still with them.’
‘Well, Sir, we have a long shot of their indian guide. He don’t look like no Marpari. I’ll have to get it blown up for definite ID,’ says the pilot.
Suddenly, there is a loud bang outside the Black Hawk! ‘Mother-fucker!’ swears the pilot, ‘someone has shot the heli-gimble camera to pieces!’
‘Jesus, get the fuck out of here!’ orders the intelligence officer.
Back on the ground….’Well done, lad,’ praises Kane. ‘Great shooting – let’s get the fuck away.’
The SAS troopers cautiously approach the hilltop and Chevez’s position. However, the bird has flown.
‘Bugger me!’ swears Kane, ‘Chevez has scarpered.’
‘There’s a good blood-trail to follow,’ says Dublin.
‘Look,’ points Lacy, ‘he’s forgotten his hat.’
‘This blood is fresh,’ says Dublin. ‘He must have only just heard or seen us.’
‘If Chevez survives the night,’ says Kane, ‘we’ll get him in the morning. When a poor man leaves his hat behind, he’s on his last legs.’
Manus Xingue dips his finger into a small pool of Chevez’s fresh blood and tastes it! The three SAS troopers watch in disgust.
‘I reckon, Sarge,’ says Lacy, ‘Rumpleforeskin fancies slipping Chevez’s bird woman a large portion of mutton dagger, after eating her old man!’
‘You could be right,’ replies Kane. ‘Let’s find out, humour the cowson, put him off guard, find out why he is sticking with us like shit to a blanket!’
Kane calls Manus Xingue over.
‘When we kill Chevez, we give Manus Xingue his woman,’ Kane announces.
Manus Xingue nods, grinning. ‘Chevez woman good fucking!’ the indian answers, making a rude gesture.
‘Horny little fucker, ain’t he,’ quips Lacy.
‘We now know his hidden agenda,’ announces Kane, still not sure of his decision to kill Manus Xingue that night. ‘His motives are purely sexual. Shall we give the repulsive reptile a reprieve ? You have always found it difficult to trust people, Frank.’
‘To me,’ answers Dublin, ‘the words “trust me” mean “fuck you”! You agreed, Jim.’
Kane looks at Lacy for his opinion; that’s how it works in the Regiment.
‘I’m with Frank on this one, Sarge – I wouldn’t trust Rumpleforeskin with my cat. He tried to get you topped this afternoon – I have a feeling that he wants something more than just getting his leg over!’
Manus Xingue approaches. ‘You give Manus Xingue more white powder, now!’ demands the Cat-man aggressively. The manner of the demand sways Kane, who now knows Manus Xingue’s confidence means he still has close back-up from his tribe – that they have already crossed the Japari River!
‘Tonight – I will give you white powder tonight,’ answers Kane, ‘when we camp. Right lads, we’ve just enough time to find a decent bivvie, down in the valley, before nightfall.’
Manus Xingue begins to walk away.
‘Where are you going?’ Kane asks.
‘Manus Xingue need meat,’ the indian answers.
‘You have meat in that basket,’ Kane replies.
‘Monkey head for tonight – need more meat for tomorrow – meat hard to find in hills. This land belong Invisible People – have big magic – hunting dangerous!’ Manus Xingue turns on his heels and walks away without further discussion, now well out of Dublin’s knife range.
‘Fuck it,’ swears Dublin, watching the indian walk away. ‘You should have let me kill that deformed troll at the river crossing, Jim! If that’s a monkey’s head in his basket, I am an orange Dutchman!’
‘Yeah,’ adds Lacy, ‘it pen and inks something rotten.’
‘We should have slit his throat before now, Jim – we don’t need him,’ continues Dublin, unable to forget the missed opportunity. ‘I think our venereal friend is now getting cautious – his sixth sense is kicking in.’
‘He’ll be back tonight,’ answers Kane confidently. ‘He now needs more white powder.’
The three SAS troopers make their way down into the sheltered valley and set up a bivouac; tropical night lingers, waiting to descend. The troopers sit around a fire. Dublin is sharpening his knife.
‘How you going to do it, Frank?’ asks Lacy, apprehensively.
‘From behind,’ answers the Irishman, ‘…ear to ear.’
‘Gordon Bennett, leave me out,’ replies Lacy. ‘There will be claret spraying everyway – I saw a pig’s throat cut once.’
‘You’d better get used to cutting a throat – it’s the best to silence and kill.’
‘It’s something we all have to do at some time,’ says Kane, ‘and sometimes even to innocent people – just to keep them quiet! Now lad, fill the canteens up from that small pool we just passed.’
‘What, on my Jack Jones?’ complains Lacy. ‘It’s nearly dark, Sarge, and there’s a man-eating, big jaguar around, and a bent coke-head on the loose!’
Kane studies Lacy; he now knows the happy-go-lucky Lacy will never learn, never be a good SAS trooper.
‘Go with him, Frank, hold his hand. When Manus Xingue appears, I’ll keep him occupied, get him to sit facing me, make him feel at ease. Do not try to approach silently – sneak up – if he is here when you get back. It won’t work.’
Dublin and Lacy walk back towards the stream in the weird half-light that appears before darkness in the tropics. Lacy is afraid and talks continually, much to Dublin’s annoyance.
‘There’s a viper here,’ continues Lacy, ‘that’s called a bushmaster – over twelve feet long. I’m not carrying any anti-venom for it….twelve foot long,’ repeats Lacy, looking around into the gloom nervously.
‘If it is twelve foot long, it won’t be hard to miss – a blind man could see it,�
� replies Dublin.
‘I wonder if that man-eating jaguar is…?’
‘Shut your bloody gob!’ says Dublin. ‘Get a grip on those nerves or this big Irish fist is going to meet your little Cockney ear-hole.’
The two SAS troopers reach the stream which flows under the gloomy canopy of a large tree – water gurgles among its giant, gnarled roots. Lacy begins to fill the canteens – he is nervous! ‘Looks like someone dumped a pile of old lorry tyres over there, Frank,’ announces Lacy, squinting into the gloom-shrouded water. ‘Stone me, Frank – they’re moving!’
What Lacy did not realise was that he was watching a large anaconda’s body uncoiling as it moved underwater towards him – the giant snake had waited in the pool for over a fortnight in ambush! Lacy also failed to notice a large, scaly, rectangular head with glassy eyes surface by his legs!
Two rapid shots shatter the jungle silence!
‘Fuck you, Frank!’ swears Lacy, jumping back. ‘I meant over there, not by my poxy ear-hole.’
‘You prick!’ hisses Dublin, ‘you only saw the snake’s body uncoiling, and missed seeing the head right by you.’
The two SAS troopers step back and watch the giant snake’s death-throes.
‘We will come back tomorrow morning,’ says Dublin, ‘and cut a couple of big steaks off the fucker.’
‘You mean to eat?’ asks Lacy.
‘Bloody right,’ answers Dublin; ‘never waste fresh protein in the jungle.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A PRIMEVAL SCENE
They make their way back, in silence. The squeamish Lacy is nervous – of having to watch Dublin cut Manus Xingue’s throat – Dublin senses this.
‘Now listen, Manus Xingue will have his back to us – I am right-handed – keep on my left side, but don’t restrict my movements. Walk up, giving it plenty of rabbit – which won’t be hard for you – understand. Jim should have let me do this a long time ago!’ Darkness now; tropical night had fallen.
The squeamish Jack Lacy swallows hard. ‘Can’t you just brain him, Frank – instead of cutting his nanny-goat?’
